The day is September Eleventh, 1922.
You are an Irish immigrant. You’ve just gotten off the unbearably long queue line at Ellis Island. Unfortunately, you could not afford the Fast Pass. Struck by your countrymen’s unquenchable thirst for alcoholic indulgence, you stagger to the bar nearest the Statue of Liberty and say “Excuse me, dear sir. I would like to buy an alcohol. Please.” Psych! It’s Prohibition! However, the bartender explains that he has a secret stash in the back which lures you, the strapping, red-haired, Seamus McWilly into the loading dock behind the bar. “It’s right over there, inside of that truck,” the man says to you. You are immediately shipped off to work on the rail lines. But that would've happened anyway. [[9/11/1942]]
The day is September Eleventh, 1977.
You are heading to your usual porno theater, The Lonesome Whoresome, which you visit every Tuesday night. When you arrive you notice a large line queued right outside the theater. You approach a short man in a trench coat and fedora standing in the back of the line. Tapping his shoulder, you ask, “Hey what’s the big deal? I’ve never seen the theater this packed.” The short man turns around revealing himself to be a 12-year-old boy. The kid says, “Um, my mom says I’m not really supposed to talk to strangers.”
Confused, you look up at the marquee and read the unfamiliar words “Star Wars.” You are intrigued by this title and think to yourself, “What is a ‘Star War?’” You begin to shove kids out of the line in order to get to the front, their scrawny, little bodies hit the floor as you shout, “get out of the way.” You arrive at the ticket booth and demand one ticket for “The Stars Wars.” The usher turns to you and says, “Sorry sir, you need a child to get into this theater.”
In a desperate hope to see this film, you turn around to find a kid who you can take with you and decide to grab the shortest one. The usher hands you your tickets and you are then escorted by an elderly woman of the night to your seat. The kid begins to blabber about how he thinks someone spilled vanilla ice cream on his chair. You promptly tell the kid to "shut up" as the movie finally begins with loud fanfare. You sit in confusion until two robots walk on screen. From that moment on, you are a Star Wars fan for life. But that would’ve happened anyways. [[9/11/1987]] The day is September Eleventh, 1987.
You are a part-time stockbroker and full-time cocaine addict. It’s the eve of the big merger-acquisition, and you know you can’t convince the people at the Little Sisters of the Poor to invest in New Pepsi if you aren’t coked up from ankles to eyeballs. Fearing this disastrous downfall, you look for your regular drug dealer, Gudy Ruliani, but are unable to find him. This is awful. Time is ticking. How will you be able to afford those tickets to the next Wham! concert? With your last ounce of strength, you rummage through the office kitchen and snort a bottle of Arm and Hammer Baking Soda. When that doesn’t do the trick, you chug a two-liter of ginger ale. Neither would do anything alone, but put together, your insides become a school science project volcano, which is anything but comfortable. Your career as a stockbroker has been cut short by an untimely and darkly comic overdose. But that would’ve happened anyway. [[9/11/2001]]
The day is September Eleventh, 2001.
Nothing of interest happened.
The day is September Eleventh, 1942.
World War 2 is on. You, being a flat-footed, two-faced, coward -- and also a pescetarian -- have refused to answer your country’s call, and several draft notices. You are wandering the New York streets when an ingenious thought strikes you, “Gee, isn’t it lucky there’s a war on. All these single women around with their husbands off to war.” So, fearing you’d miss out on this lucky stretch of isolation, you take it upon yourself to ensure your ineligibility. With a pair of pliers and a Phillips-head screwdriver, you do unspeakable things to your left knee and lower torso. In a cruel twist of fate, the pocket sized cavity you’ve created is deemed the perfect carrying pouch for secret messages across enemy lines. You are drafted into World War 2 and killed on the battleground. But that would've happened anyway. [[9/11/1966]] The day is September Eleventh, 1966.
Your name is Paul McCartney. You have just released Rubber Soul and want to take some vacation time in the States. While sunbathing at the East River, something strange emerges from the gelatinous muck. “Oy, mate!” you hear coming from a particularly slimey piece of sewage. You scramble to the riverside and clear away the rubbage. Inside you find a stark-naked Ringo Starr, skin tinted a sickly green from sewer water. “What in the bloody hell are you doing ‘ere?” you ask indignantly. “It was the strangest thing,” Ringo replies, “last thing I remember was freebasing an ashtray at the Rolling Stones’ motel room. Next thing I know, I’m in the East River.” It took this long for you to realize that Ringo Starr is -- in fact -- the worst Beatle. But that would have happened anyway. [[9/11/1977]]When the notorious Rasputin came back from the dead in <i>Hellboy</i>, they forgot to mention the incident of him stopping Osama bin Laden from committing 9/11. He wanted the Nazis to complete the job of destroying the American Empire. In fact, Building 7 was a portal to Hell itself. The Nazi 9/11 plan was foiled by Dark Horse Comics mascot, Hellboy. In this world, there was no 9/11 as we know it-- instead, several instantions of the mystical date appeared earlier in history. But that would've happened anyway. [[9/11/1922]]